


Master of His Domain

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Masturbation, Other, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:51:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4581408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil enjoys the only one worthy of him: himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Master of His Domain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aronnaxs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aronnaxs/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for anon’s “I just want Thranduil on his own at the end of a long day, lying languid and decadent on his bed, indulging himself and achieving the most incredible orgasm. Not really with any thoughts of anyone in particular, just with the pleasure of his own hand and fingers” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=20596479#t20596479). Also I broke my one-word title flow to pay homage to Seinfeld.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His room is immaculate, partially from the fastidiousness of his servants and mostly because he spends far too little time in it—the throne is his true home. Thranduil rules from his central chambers for as long as he can, but sometimes, even an elf must retire to recharge, and he wanders back through his personal quarters, running his fingers along the familiar surface of his bureau, his desk, his headboard. His mattress he lies across without disheveling the blankets—he’s not entirely sure he’ll stay.

He just needs a _moment_ alone with himself. It’s a treasure to look on the pretty, adoring faces of his subject, all of which _worship_ him, and well deserved. Sometimes he thinks of them, or the occasional scruff ranger that visits, exotic and _rough_ , or even the mortals that stray over the lake to collect the remnants of his wine. But tonight he doesn’t conjure images of lovers wholly unworthy. He sprawls out across his bed, half sitting against the headboard, half lying, the pillows cushioned against his curved spine. His long fingers part his collar, opening the hidden clasps, and bit-by-bit he opens his silver robes, revealing creamy flesh to only his own hands. 

His crown he leaves on: his kingship is a part of him. His hair tumbles elegantly down his shoulders, something he idly plays with when bored, but for now he occupies himself with sliding beneath his robes. His palm splays over his chest, tracing broad, flat muscles, honed and hardened beneath silk-soft skin. He keeps himself in peak condition should a battle ever come, should his skills need use, though he has a hoard of devotees that would throw themselves out before him. Some things a king must do himself. Like seek the perfect pleasure. 

He rolls one nipple languidly about his palm, teasing the sensitive bud to pebble, while his other hand smoothes down his taut stomach, through the short, blond scruff he might need to trim again. Then his fingers meet the base of his shaft, and he pulls himself carefully out of the fabric to jut proudly in the air, yellow and pinkish at the head, only at the beginning of hardness. The first pump is dry, and he brings his hand back to taste himself, dragging his tongue across his hand in several hard strokes. He sucks two fingers into his mouth, one at a time, just for the fun of it, lightly suckling his own digits while he pinches one hardened nipple, giving it a coy tug. 

It’s been a long time since he had a worthy lover, but he isn’t particularly put out by it. He knows what he likes, how to play his own body, and he appreciates his own handsomeness, unmatched in all of Middle Earth, except, perhaps, for his son. Often he thinks of settling, of finding some desperate fool easy on the eyes, and tossing them in his dungeons for the proper training. It would take much of that, and perhaps a mortal wouldn’t last, but any elf would be willing to wait, spend an age in the dungeons if they had to, trying toys and various servants until they were deemed worthy of their master. Thranduil chooses a random guard to picture, fantasizes of these games for half a minute, then grows inevitably bored again and returns to his own sensations, his fingers falling back to his shaft as the other set brushes across his chest to the next nipple.

It’s good to feel his fingers wrap around his cock, tightening just thick enough for a bit of _squeeze_ , but not too sharp. His own saliva eases the way, lets him draw a spiral from base to tip, where his thumb circles the peek in his foreskin, forefinger rising to help splay it open, dragging it back along his shaft for the veiled head below to peer through. He stops to do this several times in between stern strokes, fluid and melodic but serene and unhurried, until he has both nipples rising high off his chest. Then he arches forward, testing the lines of his own body, his head falling back for a contented sigh. His breathing grows heavier with his touches, chest lifting and receding while his thighs spread all the wider. He gives his nipple a final twist before brining that hand to his mouth—he just wants something to _fill_ it.

He strokes his own tongue while he fists his cock, twisting his wrist and often changing the angle, first one finger in his mouth, then two. For the most part, he keeps his eyes closed, simply _experiencing_ , but soon he’s fully hard and pulsing in his warm hand, and he glances down the long lines of his body to eye his impressive cock, thick and wanton in his hand. It’s a glorious thing, worthy of a king’s touch. He returns to stroking himself with a certain fondness, and his fingers slip from his mouth, trailing wetly down his body to join the other set between his legs. 

One hand stays curled around his cock, the other fondling his balls, just touching lightly at first, stroking and cupping while his luxurious pace rolls on. Finally, he gives his tight balls a little squeeze, large and round in his palm, and then a short tug, just enough to make his breath hitch, before he wanders back behind them. He touches himself inside his robes everywhere that other elves would give anything to see. He runs his fingers between the firm cheeks of his ass and finds his puckered hole, tiny and tight, only shuddering, winking open, when he rubs around it enough. It’s been an even longer time since he let someone fill him there. Few know how to wield their bodies as well as he can wield his own toys, and so his body takes inside it only the _best_. He doesn’t breach himself today, just rubs along it, occasionally drawing back to fondle his balls again, while his cock is stroked on and on: a constant river of _pleasure_ for his baseline. 

He bathes in this feeling for a long, long time. There are other things to rule, a kingdom to run, but Thranduil is as deserving of his breaks as any other, and his body is more than deserving of its reverence. It would be a crime to leave such a beautiful vessel unattended for too long. He likes to keep himself sensitive, his nipples arching into the air and his lips parted, his foreskin eager to be toyed with, his balls tightening in his hands. He leans his head back and wishes he’d remembered his earlier thought to bring a mirror to his wall. A sight such as this shouldn’t go to waste. As it is, he must be content to _feel_ , to sense and smell his own interest and enjoy the slick sounds of his moving fingers and his own fluttering breath. It’s his own _moan_ that finally undoes him, so wholly erotic that it would bring any suitor to their knees. His brows knit together and his teeth bite into his lip to stay his cries, his balls tightening against his wrist and his hole fluttering against his fingers. The first jet spurts across his knuckles, and Thranduil continues to pump out several more: a healthy amount of royal seed. It’s another thing a shame to waste, and he already has proof that he can create gorgeous, talented young, but he’s virile and has plenty more. He could spawn a harem if he wished, but then he would have no time for his own indulgences, and this body couldn’t bear to go unused.

His orgasm is delightful, long and thickly heated, tremours of quickened breath wracked through him. His orgasms are always incredible. When at last he’s spent, a haze of satisfaction knots around him, and he slumps in his rich sheets and pillows, his robes an open nest about his waist. 

For a few minutes, this pleasure is all Thranduil knows. He’s awash in it, tasting only this joy, and even when he slowly spirals down, he doesn’t move. Finally, he brings his hand to his lips, tasting the length of one finger. 

Delicious. As always. Thranduil enjoys himself licking away the rest before he curls up to sleep, where, perhaps, his dreams can match his splendor.


End file.
